A Funeral at St Inez

         The gentleman, a retired colonel, at whose funeral I was had left the planet early that morning. At 0300 hours, he went to use the bathroom and slumped as he stepped out. His heart had been beating 72 times per minute, 60 times every hour, 24 hours per day, into 365 days for 101 years. Do the math. He was born in 1916, a leap year that started on a Saturday (Gregorian calendar). At the time, the Julian calendar, which had thirteen extra days, was still in use. We now take for granted just one calendar for the world, though we have our Hindu/Muslim calendars in India which are used mainly for religious, wedding and other chaotic functions.

         He was one of the few persons I’ve met who fought in a World War. Representatives of the Army came to present wreaths.

I tried to figure out just what the world was like in 1916. The British Royal Army Medical Corps carried out the first successful transfusion with blood that had been stored and cooled. Today, that branch of medicine has come a long way, and saved innumerable lives.

         In February that year, Emma Goldman was arrested for lecturing on birth control in the United States. By September, though, the US had its first birth control clinic for ‘planned parenthood’. In March, BMW, Die Bayerischen Motoren Werke, a German automobile company was founded. The Emperor of China, Yuan Shikai, abdicated the throne and China became a Republic once more. In April, the toggle light-switch was invented. It’s so much a part of my life, I couldn’t believe people once lived without it. I can’t believe we once lived without electricity in Palolem, Canacona. (Just as I’m finding it hard to believe parts of India are suffering from drought, the way swimming-pools and golf courses are guzzling water in other parts.)  

         In July 1916, a shark attacked five swimmers along a 130 km stretch of shore; four died, one had a limb amputation. Half a century later, Peter Benchley wrote ‘Jaws’, changing the scope of horror movies. In August, Lord Baden-Powell established the Cub Scouts movement. In September, a circus elephant in the US was hanged for killing her handler. Animal rights’ activists were unknown then. The word ‘activist’ did not exist.

         As I watched the soldiers saluting the body, I recalled the Colonel’s contemporaries, all gone: Giani Zail Singh, Chinmayanda, MS Subbulakshmi, Bismillah Khan, Kanan Devi, Jagjit Singh Aurora. Do the names strike a bell? They should.

         Religious rituals were replaced by a neat and sombre ceremony. Formally attired soldiers walked in step, saluted smartly, laid and then considerately placed aside their wreaths to make way for those following. At 101, he was old enough to be their great-great-great grandfather. Remarkably, he had nil ailments and he took his last breaths whilst he was still on his feet. Even then, it took him some time to ‘go’. A fighter till the end.

         Beyond one of the crematorium walls is an animal shelter. Barks and mews of puppies and kittens reminding us that life is born anew, punctuated the constant rustling of leaves on the tall trees on the opposite side. At the entrance, a poster declared the availability of a trolley named ‘swarg vahan’ (who coins these words?) that someone had donated. If there’s more than one cremation happening, a traffic jam understandably happens on the road outside. Time to encourage people to either walk to funerals, or have a specially-hired shuttle service to and from a convenient place, or discourage people from attending at all.

Bai Goanna whispered: “I’ve witnessed one with a single person accompanying the body.” Happens. At the funeral of one of my relatives, only his widow and one erstwhile colleague were present.

Contrary-wise, some post-death events have been in halls with sound-systems for speeches, banquet-menus, expensive priests on hire, cheques distributed for charity, mementoes given to those present, etc. Large portraits of ‘the beloved’ prominently ‘graced’ the occasion and newspaper advertisements. Occasions to flaunt wealth and network. Methinks: to each their own.

            Here, at the St Inez crematorium, one frail, elderly staff wearing loose shorts, rubber slippers and thick spectacles picked up the logs of wood to place on the platform. I wondered at what age he’d retire and whether a replacement would be easy to get. These days certain vacancies seem hard to fill. Locals don’t want outsiders to get jobs, but they don’t want to do such jobs themselves. Water sells in bottles, air is conditioned, food-shelter-clothing are provided by private players, even pay-toilets and waste-management are commerce-motivated… only the disposal of the dead (irrespective of religion) is solely the government’s responsibility.  

“Goa still doesn’t have an electric crematorium,” someone observed.

“Why?” another asked.

A third replied: “Because there isn’t enough electricity.”

The first commented: “They can put a transformer for the purpose. Look at the number of trees being cut.”

No NGOs or activists seem to be taking an interest in this subject.

Whilst the elderly staff spilt orange liquid fuel to help the flames crackle and consume, the birds flew helter-skelter, as if making way for the spirit leaving the body. Even for non-believers, this thought comes to mind.

The conversation turned from cremations to burial plots and the lack of space for them. In densely populated cities, small drawers become family vaults as each grave houses multiple coffins year after year.

After the funeral, we went with the family to have ice-cream. The Colonel loved ice-cream. So we had some. Light conversation kept immediate grief at bay.

The 101-year-old’s farewell was dignified and, as befitted a professional of an era when honour and gentlemanly conduct was in vogue, sans superfluities. Even in death he led, as officers must, by example.

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Village Life in Goa.

          Our family doctor in Panaji once said to me that he was a ‘metro-man’, who wouldn’t enjoy village life. As a person with multiple interests, he can’t afford to spare time from a busy practice to commute. Like him, there are many Goans who prefer urban amenities to rural living. We, who chose to make a village our home, find that we don’t miss the city, bless good connectivity. In fact, just a few days ago, our neighbourhood got a new mall, housing grocery stores, fashionable boutiques, fancy restaurants and cinema theatres. 

          “Never mind the traffic snarls outside it,” Shri Husband growled, grumbling above my shoulder as I type.

          Petrol pumps, shoe stores, white goods’ outlets, paint and hardware shops have brought the world to our panchayat borders.

          Some things haven’t changed. The poder’s honk, the fisherwoman’s cry, the bulls that are dragged to the field pre-dawn, women teaming up with sisters-in-law and friends to harvest alsandey… these ancient routines continue unchanged. So also the religious rituals, Hindu and Catholic, carried out by rote.

          Some things have. In corners where old (and now clogged) nalas meet tarred roads, drunks and druggies snuggle in the night. The cops might not know their secret hideouts, locals do. No one discusses where/how petty crime is born. They say cities are breeding grounds for crime. Really? Check out the backgrounds of the ISIS recruits.

Viva village life. Illegalities flourish. 95% of the housing isn’t approved by TCP: haphazard and with the quiet ok of the panchayat. Expensive gated communities attract reporters, make headlines, but pukka huts where laundry/ carpentry/ welding are done are as environmentally unfriendly. No activists talk about water-guzzling, mess-causing, noise-polluting ‘essential’ services that have stealthily taken over productive fields. Launderers and welders, carpenters and others live and litter where once stretched patches of alsanday/ tambdi bhaji. Apparently, I was told by a lawyer who provides free advice hereabouts, if someone complains to the panchayat about illegal constructions/activities, the culprits go to a higher authority and from court to court the matter proceeds draining everyone of time, energy, money, for a couple of generations.

          “Nothing new,” sniggered the ever-cynical Shri Husband over my shoulder. “Happens all the time, all over India, has been happening and will continue unless the people and the government both want a change.” Took me a couple of seconds to understand that statement. “Yeah,” I echoed. “Both people and the government.” Rare to have them (plus Shri Husband and me) on the same page, I guess.

          Villagers’ aspirations are interesting. I overheard a primary-school-aged boy tell another, ‘let’s play bus-bus’. He wanted to be the conductor so he could shout to passers-by ‘Mapsa-Ponnje-Mapsa-Ponnje’. Another person, long past childhood, was thrilled to get a bit of ancestral land so he could open a shack and ‘make money’. Professions: as waiters, maybe, or hotel housekeeping help. Vocations: as taxi-drivers. Occupations: preferably to play football/ carom/ do nothing at all. Selling well-water for swimming-pool consumption or opening yet another grocery store are ‘ideas’ that make their way into village homes.

          Ah, the charm of fishing after sunset: catching frogs (illegally again), romancing under the moon and mango branches… a perspective that slithers away when one discovers that squabbling neighbours had got together and twisted a newcomer’s arm to ‘donate’ a path/ lamp-post for them.  

          “Later,” Shri Husband said, “the same neighbours un-teamed themselves and went their own quarrelsome ways, right?” I agreed. Humans don’t change, whether in waddos, housing societies or continents. Some are friendly, some otherwise.

One experience: it took me some cajoling and chit-chatting with neighbours to discover where exactly the water-connection junction was buried when the ‘line’ was to be brought to my home. The assistant engineer at the PWD office couldn’t find his drawings (I wasn’t paying for his effort to trace them) and the plumber in-charge had selective amnesia (I wasn’t paying to revive his memory either) regarding this particular location. Eventually, it was a housewife who had her own pipeline fixed (illegally again) who disclosed the secret.

Come morning, the birds readying themselves for the day, the glowing bunch of coconuts ready to be plucked, the boy who eagerly aims and tosses the rolled newspaper over my gate, the stray dog that adoringly looks at me… remind me that life here is good. And then, I see the growing slum that’s causing as much damage (by comparative scale) as the def-expo and ask myself whether its dwellers/promoters pay taxes. The cars they own aren’t lower end. Don’t IT officials pay visits here?

          “Living in utopia or what?” Bai Goanna said when Shri Husband told her what I was writing.

          Over territory, over water, when panchs (pronounced ‘punches’) don’t get along, the fights are worthy of ticket-sale. “The history of the world is the magnified history of a village,” I said loftily.

          “Not your original quote,” quipped Shri Husband.

          “Apt nevertheless,” I retorted.       

          We can’t have a world cultural festival here, but we do have our own bhajan-mandali which advertises its talents through posters and leaflets. They say people come from afar to witness the events held in the temple close by. And eat the free prasad distributed subsequently.

          The villagers are happy. Real estate dealers are going around telling prospective customers ‘our village nicest’. Someone’s making money, no one’s grumbling, the garbage piles increase. The garishly-coloured flats/ apartments/ blocks/ complexes have come up fast: proof that the dealers are believed and doing a good job. Commission economy zindabad.

          The other day, someone asked me whether I missed city life. No. My answer was instant. Plucking self-grown, sun-ripened fruit and watching the antics of mongoose babies gives a high that city-life doesn’t. In spite of flaws, village life rocks.

          “Add…” Shri Husband said and I did: “…Our family doctor doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

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The Daal-ings of Indian Meals.

               What we called ‘varann’ was what our hotel guest Anna relished as ‘savoury porridge’; she had it every morning at breakfast. Strange things foreigners do. On restaurant menus, I read ‘khatkhate’ described as lentil stew. I shouldn’t be surprised, because that’s how ‘sambar’ is described, too.

               Since our Goan pronunciation is ‘daall’ with a hard ‘d’ like in dvd and pressing a twisted tongue on the palate at the last two letters, ‘ll’, I had to relearn how to say it when I went to live in north India where both letters are soft.

               The idiom ‘daal mein kuch kala hain’ is not as valid these days when we get de-stoned pulses packed in polythene bags. I remember how much I hated picking at those dried and split cotyledons to take out little stones which, if ever one escaped my eye and finger, went through the process of pressure-cooking along with the ‘daall’ and routed itself into Shri Husband’s mouth. The ‘kaala’ in the ‘daall’ always avoided me.  It was a conspiracy, I swear, for it happened multiple times without my playing any active role in the drama. Raving and ranting against Providence and the elements of Nature didn’t help: Shri Husband didn’t believe me. His dentist, too, looked accusingly at me.

               But there’s more to the ‘daalls’ in my life.

               Once, a colleague in Delhi said: ‘nek kar, kuem mein daal’. I understood the first part: do good. But the second part of the sentence it took me some time to figure out. If one did a good deed, why would there be ‘daall’ in the well (‘kuam’)? I understood after I encountered ‘iss bag mein yeh daal, uss bag mein voh daal’.

 It took me even longer to understand that patriotic song: ‘Jahan daal-daal per sone ki chidiya karti hai basera’. Such are the perils of living in a multi-lingual country.

               The teachers who taught me in school, may their kind and hardworking souls rest in peace after struggling for a lifetime trying to put a sense and rule of grammar into heads like mine, were mainly ‘cattlicks’ from Goa or Anglo-Indians. They converted ‘daall’ to ‘doll’ or ‘dawhl’ if they were of the left-behind-by-the-Raj variety. Had me in a spot once, in Belgaum, at a friend’s ancient aunt’s place. This grey-haired, floral-printed-dress wearing prim and proper remnant of another century asked me which ‘doll’ I liked. I was in my late teens and not flattered that she took me to be a juvenile.  I shook my head vigorously to indicate nyet, nil, none. She then said: “Awright, we’re having meat for lunch, then.” I was confused until the flickering tube-light finally lit in my head. Pronunciations/accents, what communication goof-ups they can cause.

               ‘Moong’ and ‘masoor’ we ate (still do) whole, sprouted and cooked into ‘usals’ and ‘shaaks’. The former, in ‘daall’ form was (still is) mixed with rice to make a mushy ‘khichdi’ that was meant to give solace to the ill and ailing. I’ve no idea why ‘chavlee’ isn’t skinned and split. The wisdom of that decision has died with our ancestors. Who are we to or how dare we even question tradition?

For some reason, south Indians who consume copious amounts of the split ‘urad’, don’t touch its black whole form which is popular in the north. This sub-continent’s food habits can give a cookery-historian work for a lifetime.

               Talking of the black ‘urad’, …cooked through a winter’s day over firewood/coal to a sticky oneness by nightfall, seasoned well and eaten with a blob of butter with ‘rotis’ fresh off the ‘choola’ whilst temperatures hovered around 0 deg C and the mist thickened into fog… bring back memories of extreme discomfort. Really feel sorry for our jawans at the border; their ‘rotis’ are stale and stiff, cooked weeks before. Each bite they take, at Siachen heights, freezes before their hand reaches from bowl to mouth. And they live there so we can live here in peace.

               I digress.

               Now that the ‘daall’ is making headlines in the news because of its price, Rs 220 per kilogram as I type this, Bai Goanna wanted to know which ‘daall’.

‘Channa’ must be, she said, adding, “gives gas. We must eat more of it.”

               Shri Husband butted in: “What’s the logic?”

               Bai Goanna explained: “We must eat more ‘channa’ because India needs more gas. All this subsidy business, no, for gas-cylinders that we have to give up… if there’s some way we can ‘harvest’ (her word, not mine) gas from human beings, it will be good for the country, no?”

               I saw Shri Husband’s palm go straight to his forehead, and so I hastily changed the topic. I don’t know why Bai Goanna has to come up with warped logic at odd moments. Any moment, actually.  

               I said, “I bought some ‘daall’ last month. Used it sparingly, too.”

               “Lock it up,” Bai Goanna advised. “Keep it for Diwali or some special occasion.”

               Wise words can come from unexpected sources, even Bai Goanna, no? ‘Daall’-rice has now been officially declared a VIP dish. In case the governor drops in… dreaming isn’t a crime in this country… I must have a handful of ‘toor/arhar’ in the house. After all, yellow ‘daall’ with ‘tadka’ is considered the darling of Indian cuisine. Not tandoori chicken, not any longer.

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Dial 108 and Goan Traits.

(21 Apr ’13)

            I got the opportunity to test Goa’s unique ambulance service in the middle of the night when my mother took ill suddenly. I was pleased with the experience. The phone was picked up promptly when I called. The person who picked it up asked relevant questions in a language I understood, and without an heavy accent that often makes comprehension difficult.  The driver was provided with a phone for getting to the house with personalized directions. The vehicle arrived within the promised time limit. The staff attending to my mother, Yvette, was brisk, professional and very polite. The concern showed. Hope all are like her. The problem most of us face is of manpower to lift the loaded stretcher. Unless one has young male neighbours to lend a hand, this is something that needs to be looked at. This is a free service, and one can’t have extra hands on board. That apart, 108 did give commendable service.

            In all my previous jobs, the atmosphere was cosmopolitan. This is the first time my colleagues are true-blue Goans who have not stepped out of their village(s) and who are not in the age-group to change or learn new stuff easily.  It’s interesting to note that they will talk behind each others’ backs but be very sweet to the face. How courteously they talk: can be misleading. Yesterday, when the tempo driver came later than at the time agreed to, my only non-Goan colleague gave everybody a lecture on punctuality. The chap was to report at 2 pm. He did, only to inform that he’s returning after lunch. So for our purpose, he arrived 45 minutes late. Strangely, everyone took the tempo-fellow’s side, saying that he was a ‘good chap’. Why was he a good chap? Because he lent a hand with the luggage and loading (as did the ambulance driver above, I must add). The other strange reason was: he didn’t mind if he was paid late. Why is that considered a ‘good thing’? Why do we not pay on time as the norm, I asked. No we do, the old-timers said, but you know, he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t ask for the money, they repeated over again. Strange are the ways of Goa and Goans, I thought.

            Two of the staff had to go to Vasco without warning. Everybody was reduced to tears like they were going on a long journey. Call an air-conditioned car, suggested one. The owner of the business said ‘bus it’. The eyes and shoulders gave indications of unwillingness. Bus? In the afternoon? Bus? All the way to Vasco? When would they reach? What will happen to their lunch (ah, this question was SO important)? Each question was fielded, answered, and they had to leave. “Never done it before” they grumbled as they bid the others ‘bye. Till they returned safely and soundly, it was live tiatr time in the office.

            Unlike most places I’ve worked in, here snakes visit my office through the window.  My true-blue Goan colleagues are unfazed by their wriggly arrival. They play around for a bit with a rolled newspaper and then toss the reptiles back into the flora outside. I remember once a pigeon had flown into the library of the hospital where I used to work and there was chaos with people running helter-skelter in panic as if they’d been hit by a bomb. Goans are ok with Nature; at least the villagers.

            Dealing with customers is another thing. They’re polite and courteous. They’re so nice that they are ready to part with items without asking for payment. “He can give later, no” used to be the attitude in the beginning, one of the owners told me. I’ve inherited a ‘trained’ bunch that knows that money must be asked for. They have yet to learn to keep track of who came, make a data base, follow up cases, advertise wares and market the goods aggressively like the Delhites do. Am glad at that reticence, though, for I hate to get badgered into buying anything, and expect others hate it too.

            My new job is in a place that deals with luxury stuff. Surprising how many Goans are interested in such things. I thought Goans were simple and weren’t good consumers. I was wrong. Wrong. There’s a lot of money floating around just waiting to be spent. And willing spenders digging into their pockets. I’m looking forward to writing about the customers in future stories. Love their quirks and eccentricities. Lots of fodder for my column!! Ha!

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Contrarywise

(19 Feb ’12)

            Nothing artificial, no plastic, everything as Nature intended it to be: some people like to be like that. They’re the kinds who make rassagullas and spaghetti at home. They buy ingredients from shops that promise them they are grown with cow-dung. No chemicals, nothing artificial about what goes into their mouths. If you notice, they lug back kilograms of organic stuff, sun-ripened, hand cut or ground or plucked, packed in jute or paper bags, to their cars. There are a few who use cycles made of steel and hardened rubber tyres, but they’re really only a few. Mostly the organic-food, khadi-kapda-natural-dyes, no-synthetics kinds are also lovers of new cars and air-conditioners. Bullocks and carts that go with them are a bit too natural to use.

            I use either my feet or the local bus to take me from point A to B. I carry canvas bags to avoid strangling the gutters with discarded polythene bags. At the end of a shopping junket, I’m quite often exhausted. It’s preserving me versus preserving the planet, I feel at times.

            The Earth Saving Mantra comprises three Rs: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.

            Reduce actually means don’t shop. It means you can do with eight sets of clothes. One for each day of the week and one for formal occasions. I believe in uniforms. If every office or factory worker wore one, they’d save on their own clothes. Companies aren’t likely to buy new stuff readily, so overall there is a reduction in use of one’s personal clothes. What will happen to the economy if people don’t shop? How’d I know, I’m Green. Now Reduce means shop only when necessary. You break a chappal, buy another. You run out of perfume, buy another. Is perfume a necessity? Fresh topic for debate. It could be flower-based, not synthetic. What if it’s sandalwood based? Sandalwood is almost extinct. Should one extract oil from it for cosmetic use? Is man to live by bread alone? Would this come under Beauty Without Cruelty or is that restricted to fish, feathers and four-legged creatures? Reduce will save you a lot of dusting, tidying and money: think egg-beaters, chapatti-makers and milk-boilers. And, curios: plastic Japanese dolls, plaster of Paris Ganapatis, pen-stands, table-lamps, ashtrays, Taj Mahals imprisoned in acrylic, brass vases… thank heavens for digital photography, we are spared photograph albums. 

            Reuse means when that jar of skin-softening or hair-styling cream is over, wash it, dry it and use it to store masalas. No plastic you say? Line the container with foil. If you throw it…. You’re not really Green then. Real planet lovers shouldn’t be into new  mobile phones, televisions or anything that can be thrown away. Any kind of non-essential shopping is anti Planet.

            Recycle is what isn’t happening to our Goan Garbage. As far as plastic is concerned, the first two R’s aren’t being followed. Even the organic-foodies don’t. Most states have a wonderful community called the Bhangar or Raddhi walas. Goa doesn’t. We could, if we wanted clean neighbourhoods, burn our plastic stuff. We have some way to go before we realize that we create our own garbage without help from the Bhailley.

            Next on my agenda is the killing of eight Puneites by a bus driven awry. Everyone’s debating about how horrid the bus drivers are. Everyone also needs to figure out (for our own safety’s sake), how many drivers are diabetic, or have neurological problems, or are plain stressed out and overworked. Pilots have tests, even train drivers to, but not the bus chaps. I’ve traveled multiple times by Kadamba and Maharashtra State Buses in and out of Goa and can vouch for the quality of their driving: good, and even on very wet, poor visibility monsoon days. We spare no thought, no time for training (be it of policemen, teachers, surgeons or tailors) and then we bad mouth them when something goes wrong. I think the aam aadmi needs to be locked up once in a while for jaywalking. I have little sympathy for someone who has dodged across moving traffic and then got injured. Ask for trouble, and you’ll get it. How is it that no mother is ever pulled up when a child runs onto the road and gets injured by a passing vehicle? I’ve never heard of a motorcyclist getting into trouble for weaving in and out of speeding traffic. Truck-drivers are rash. Of course. But motorcyclists are rash, too, far more often and dangerously so.

            Having said that, may you and yours reach home safely, day after day, and may you consider going organic even whilst you’re wondering how to deal with the plastic waste in your house. Ciao.

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